


i turn my camera on

by omniocularz (adaptation)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Accidental Sex, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Porn, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Enthusiastic Consent, Everybody Does Porn, Felching, Insecure Richie Tozier, Jock Straps, M/M, Masturbation, Mid-Twenties Losers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Video, Richie Tozier Has a Big Dick, Rimming, Service Top Richie Tozier, Sex Toys, Sex Work, Shameless Self-Indulgence, Slutty Eddie Kaspbrak, Stan does porn and also Richie's taxes, The Author Regrets Nothing, Versatile Eddie Kaspbrak, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23556088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adaptation/pseuds/omniocularz
Summary: "So what kind of videos do you do?""What?" Richie snorts into his beer stein. "No, man, I'm just a cameraman.""Really? Why?" There's genuine incomprehension on Eddie's face that makes the back of Richie's neck tingle, just along his hairline."Uh, just because of who I am as a person? I mean, look at me."Eddie looks him over, leisurely, lingering. "I am."-In which Eddie is a porn star and Richie is not.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 119
Kudos: 832





	i turn my camera on

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: I don't know how porn works, please don't come for me

Richie's cleaning jizz off his camera lens when the new guy walks in.

Maturin is a small company, so of course he'd heard that they were signing someone new. Someone with a reputation in the business, who might bring in new viewers and nab them more attention when it came to awards season. He hadn't paid that much attention to the workplace gossip of it, certainly not enough to speculate on who the new hire is. It had briefly crossed his mind that it's probably someone he's jerked off to before, but given that he works for a porn production company, that isn't exactly a jaw-dropper.

Eddie Keller is, though.

"I know, right?" Adrian laughs, clapping Richie on the shoulder. It startles Richie into closing his mouth, which had actually fallen open at the sight of Bev walking by with the spicy little twink who'd won Best New Performer at the AVN Awards two years ago. "Talk about left field. I heard he was shopping around, but didn't know he was looking for something like this." Richie finally manages to tear his eyes away from Eddie's ass as Adrian shrugs off the robe he'd thrown on after he blew his load. "Anyway, I'm good to keep going now. You got the camera clean?"

"Yeah." His voice comes out oddly hoarse, but he shoves Adrian back toward the bedroom set where a sweaty Don is passing a bottle of water off to a PA. "Get back to work, and watch your aim this time, spunky."

Richie has been punching the clock at Maturin almost since the get-go. He and Bev had been roommates when they first moved to LA, back when Bev was still filming casting couch videos and trying to get producers to take her seriously. After another mediocre gangbang video full of oiled up jocks, and a few too many margaritas, Richie had jokingly suggested Bev open her own studio. Be the boss she wanted to have, make the videos she wanted to see, hire the people she wanted to work with. And now, seven years on, they have a great thing going.

What makes Maturin different from other porn companies is the culture. To work at Maturin, you have to fit into the tight-knit group of people who run it. Everybody pitches in—most of the on-screen talent do crew duties when they aren't scheduled to film. You work with who you want to work with, in ways that make you comfortable, and everyone gets treated with respect. It's as close to porn heaven as Richie thinks it's possible to get. He loves working with his best friends, thinks nothing of getting his camera lens all up in their junk and offering constructive criticism on where to best aim a come shot. Editing the videos is one of his favourite parts, getting the shots right and making things flow. It scratches a creative itch he never realized he had until Bev handed him a camera.

Because of all that, they're all more than a little protective of Maturin. They're picky with who they hire. Everyone who signs with them signs an exclusivity contract waiving the right to film for any other company or individual who might offer. They're stringent with their testing to the point that they won't sign anyone who can't hand over a clean bill of health at the drop of a hat. The interview process is lengthy, since Bev has to be sure you'll mesh before she'll sign you. If Eddie Keller's here now, that means he's almost through the hoops. He's getting the tour today, he'll be dragged out to hang with them all tonight. If he passes that last hurdle, she'll hand him a contract.

How the _fuck_ did he make it this far without Richie knowing? And why didn't anybody tell him they were hiring the whole reason Richie paid for Pornhub Premium?

"Rich, can you focus please?" Don reaches up from his spot on the bed, snapping his fingers in front of Richie's lens. "My dick isn't going to frame itself."

Richie stretches around the bulky camera to flick Don in the forehead. "Stay in your lane, Hagarty. Do I tell you how to deepthroat? No, even if you could use the lessons." Adrian snorts from his position between Don's legs and Don retaliates by tweaking his nipple. "Now will you two please give me something worth filming?"

* * *

The recording of Adrian and Don's session this morning is uploading to the editing server a little later, while Richie's hunched over his station, fiddling with the audio levels on a bondage scene Stan and Patty shot last week. He's got his giant-ass headphones on and he's twirling a pen in his fingers while he works. He always finds it easier to immerse himself in editing when he's got something to fidget with. He's deeply engrossed in trying to artificially zoom in on a shot of Patty's fingernails sinking into Stan's shoulder when someone pulls one of his headphones off his ear and lets it snap back against his head.

He flails comically, arms spinning as his chair whirls around to face Bev. "Jesus, Beverly, can't a guy make porn in peace around—"

Eddie Keller's right behind her.

"Richie, this is Eddie. I'm giving him the tour." Bev beams, shifting to the side so she can gesture to the man with her. Eddie's already looking directly at him, giant Bambi eyes flickering over the whole entire mess that is Richie Tozier. Richie pushes the headphones off his ears and settles the band around his neck, tongue sneaking out to wet his chapped bottom lip.

"Uh," Richie says. "Hey."

Eddie stares at him, radiating judgement even though his expression is carefully blank. "Do you always edit porn in your pajamas?"

Richie glances down at his spare pants, which are red flannel and very comfortable, thank you. "Only when my jeans get covered in lube." He shrugs, trying for a charming smile. "Hazard of the trade."

Those huge brown eyes drag over him like they're searching for any sticky spots Richie might have missed. "Right." Then, apparently deeming him sanitary enough, Eddie shoves a hand out toward him. "Eddie Kaspbrak."

Of course Keller’s a pseudonym. Nobody in porn uses their real name. The only time Richie regrets not being on camera is when he thinks about the incredible porn names he could pick from.

"Richie Tozier." He clasps hands with Eddie, doing his best to keep his eyes from sliding. He's keenly aware of Bev watching him, waiting for a witty quip or a horny joke. And that's him, that's the entirety of Richie Tozier, but he's watched countless videos of the compact little wet dream in front of him in various states of undress, sucking dick, riding fingers, and sinking down on eight inches of cock. He can't look at Eddie's tight pink mouth without remembering all the times he's stroked himself off staring at it.

"It's nice to meat you," he manages, after an awkward beat. "M-E-A-T."

Eddie's face scrunches up like he's about to go off, but Bev claps a hand onto his shoulder before he can start. "And that's all you need to know about Richie," she says and starts to steer him back toward the door of the editing suite. "Let me show you some of the sets."

The news that Eddie is exiting his space does wonders for Richie's frame of mind, and he sits up a little straighter, smiling crookedly. "See ya around, Eddie Spaghetti." Eddie glances over his shoulder in time to catch Richie firing off a playful salute.

Eddie sighs deeply, his forehead creasing as he follows Bev to the door. Just as he crosses the threshold, Richie hears, "Fuck, I hope not," and he cackles to himself as the door swings closed.

* * *

Richie leaves work that day knowing that if he doesn't hit the bar tonight, he'll never hear the end of it. It's important for all the main players at Maturin to go to these things, to spend some time with the possible hires, and Richie's never missed one yet.

But they've also never hired a frequent withdrawal from his spank bank, so this whole situation is uncharted territory.

Since his jeans have lube on them, he swings by his apartment instead of heading straight to The Jaunt. He takes a quick shower and changes into a pair of dark wash jeans that don't have any noticeable stains, a turtle-patterned button-up and a graphic tee featuring a stack of pancakes getting squirted on by a circle of syrup bottles that says PANCAKKE. It feels especially appropriate that night, given the subject of one of Eddie's recent videos.

He Ubers to the bar and stumbles inside like he's already drunk. He lowkey hates this, hates that he can't even function enough to have control of his limbs just because some guy he's met _once_ is going to be there. He's a disaster. He just needs to get a shot or two into him so he can relax. He just has to be normal long enough to convince Bev he made an effort, and then he can duck out. Half an hour. Forty-five minutes, tops. He barely even has to talk to Eddie. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

He beelines straight for the bar, past where his friends and coworkers have shoved two tables together and made themselves at home. He tosses a wave at them, deliberately not looking too hard, and jerks his thumb toward the bar so they get the idea. It's only when he's got a shot glass in each hand that he actually takes in what's happening at the table.

It's smiles all around. Bev is leaning one shoulder against Ben, cheating herself toward the rest of the table so she can see everyone, and she's beaming. Stan is animatedly explaining something to Mike, gesturing with an onion ring. Patty's next to him, one hand resting on his forearm, but she's deep in conversation Kay across from her. Don and Adrian are fighting over a plate of nachos. Bill has his arm slung around Eddie, apparently ecstatic to have made a friend close to his height. And there is one empty seat, at the head of the table opposite Mike. It's kitty corner to Eddie.

Richie downs one shot, replaces it with a stein of beer. Then he takes a seat at the table.

He manages to slide into his chair and take a glance around the table exuding what he hopes is an air of normalcy. "Don't worry, guys, I'm here now. We can get this shindig started."

"Nice of you to join us, Trashmouth," Bill teases. Unfortunately, this means Richie is socially obligated to look toward him, and, by extension, the adorable twink he's hanging off.

Eddie's eyebrows twitch up as he looks between Richie and Bill. His big brown eyes are glossy with drink, and his skin is flushed prettily. Richie yearns for death. "Trashmouth?" Eddie repeats.

Richie shrugs and forces his eyes down to his second shot, then knocks it back as Bill explains. "It's a nickname. Everything that comes out of his mouth is garbage."

Then Bill gets dragged into whatever discussion Kay and Patty are having, and suddenly Eddie's attention is on Richie like a spotlight. It's warm and blinding and makes him a little sweaty. But Richie has always craved attention the way an addict craves a hit, and he's never known what's good for him anyway.

"Did you manage to save your pants?" Eddie asks. His tone is flat, but there's a sparkle of amusement in his eyes that makes Richie feel warm—a kitten in a sunbeam.

"It was touch and go for a while, but they'll make it. It was a complicated operation. Fortunately, I'm an expert in lube stain removal."

"It's a handy skill to have in this industry." Richie chances another glance over at Eddie just in time to see him take a sip of his beer and lick away the head left on his lip. It punches the air out of him so hard it takes him a second to understand Eddie's next question. "So what kind of videos do you do?"

"What?" He snorts into his beer stein. "No, man, I'm just a cameraman."

"Really? Why?" There's genuine incomprehension on Eddie's face that makes the back of Richie's neck tingle, just along his hairline.

"Uh, just because of who I am as a person? I mean, look at me."

Eddie looks him over, leisurely, lingering. "I am."

Richie doesn't immediately know what to say to that, so he takes a drink of his beer to buy himself time and hopes the uncomfortable rush of blood to his cheeks isn't as obvious as it feels. Then he rolls his eyes and taps at the thick frames of his glasses. "Then maybe you need these puppies more than I do."

For one glorious moment, he thinks Eddie's going to drop it. But then the little shit leans in toward him over the arm of his chair, across the corner of the table. His thick, intense brows are drawn together in confusion. "I thought everybody at Maturin worked more than one job. Isn't that your whole schtick?"

"It is." Richie looks away, eyes falling literally anywhere that isn't Eddie. His voice feels thin, defensive. "I do camera work, I edit. I pull my weight." Eddie makes a considering noise that makes Richie feel deeply judged. " _What?_ "

"I just don't get it. Yeah, sure, you dress like a feral twelve-year-old, but you've got those shoulders, and that jawline. And you're," he waves at Richie's whole situation, "huge."

"You should see my dick," Richie blurts, and immediately hates himself.

Eddie smirks, and this time when his eyes drag over him Richie can feel it like fingers on his skin. Eddie drags the pad of his index finger around the damp rim of his stein. "Fair's fair. You've seen mine."

"I—" Richie feels the flush on his cheeks deepen, but he tries to keep his voice steady. "I never said I'd seen your work."

Eddie cocks one brow, his head tilting to jut his jaw out in a subtle challenge. "Then why do you keep looking at me like you've seen me naked?"

Richie's hands are sweating. He presses them against his thighs, rubs. He swallows hard and takes a covert look around the table; no one is paying them any attention, oblivious to the trainwreck occurring in Richie's corner. He sighs and says in a rush, "Dude, you're in the top 10 most popular list on Pornhub every month. Everybody's seen you naked."

"You know my stats, huh?" The smirk on Eddie's face widens, taking on a look of genuine amusement.

"You fumbled three sets of balls in your last video."

"Fuck you, man," Eddie laughs, loud and bright, throwing his whole body back in his chair. "I didn't fumble shit. That was _fondling._ "

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Something about Eddie's laughter, the easy curve of his throat when he tosses his head back, the endless brown of his huge fucking eyes, makes Richie's nerves slip. They take up residence in the relentless bouncing of his knee, which allows him the freedom to smile crookedly back and say, "You're a pro at fondling."

Eddie nods. The corner of his mouth quirks, almost smugly. "I have the trophies to prove it."

"Let me guess. You've got them all lined up along your mantel." Richie knocks back the shot he'd been saving, and then chases it with a swallow of beer. Then he adds sweetly, "Or are they featured prominently in your bedroom? Like a promise and a brag all in one."

Eddie's head cocks to the right as his eyes flicker to Richie's mouth. "You could find out," he says, and Richie wishes he had beer in his mouth to blame for the choking noise he makes.

"Is this a thing you do?" he blurts. "Seducing all your coworkers? Have you fucked Bill already? Hey, Bill." He sounds a little manic, but chalks it up to the booze. "Have you fucked Eddie?"

Bill glances over at Eddie, who's trying to cover his smirk with an eye roll. "Uh, no, I don't think so."

"You'd remember if you had," Eddie promises. Bill turns back to his much less important conversation, and Richie hopes he doesn't look as punched out as he feels.

Thankfully, he's saved from responding by Mike leaning over the table toward them, one long arm stretched out to get their attention. "I'm sure we can get you on the docket with Eddie if you want a shot with him, Bill."

"How sweet of you to share, Mikey," Eddie smiles into his beer.

How could he have forgotten? In the brain death caused by Eddie's sudden appearance at the studio, it had completely slipped Richie's mind. Eddie and Mike had filmed together, back before Mike signed on with Maturin. He'd seen the video once, when they were interviewing Mike. It was good; all Eddie's work was good. Eddie had topped in that video, playing a mechanic fixing up Mike's shiny red car. He'd bent Mike over the hood.

"Oof," Richie exhales. He only realizes he said it aloud when Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him. "So, uh. Why come to Maturin? It seemed like you had a pretty good thing going in the freelance world."

"It was fine." Eddie considers his beer. "I think the stability will be nice. And there's something to be said for forming relationships with your coworkers." He doesn't mean it the way it sounds, Richie's sure of that. "In freelance, you never know what you're going to get. I had a shoot recently where it turned out my scene partner was dating the camera guy, and..." He shrugs. "The camera guy had a jealous streak. It made the whole shoot awkward. I don't want to have to worry about shit like that when I'm working, I want to be able to trust the people I'm with."

"Oh. Right." Of course. Why else would Eddie be flirting with him like this? Getting in good with the cameraman was Film Star 101. The guy behind the camera was the one who made you look good, when you were fucking guys who looked like Mike. "Makes sense." Eddie looks like he's going to say something else, a suggestive smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, but Richie downs the rest of his beer in two giant gulps and slams the stein back onto the table. "Well, I'm afraid that's it for me, kids. I got an early morning."

"Since when?" Bev scoffs from her end of the table. Richie sticks his tongue out at her. "You're not on the call sheet until tomorrow afternoon."

"I have errands, Molly Ringwald. Like a goddamn adult."

Kay snipes, "Who told Richie he was an adult?"

"My accountant," Richie says, throwing a wink to Stan as he pushes back his chair. His eyes flicker to Eddie of their own accord, just for a second. Just long enough to register him peering up with his fucking Highland cow eyes, brows pulled together in a vague pout. "See you losers later." He goes so far as to tip a fake hat at Eddie and say, "Eduardo." Then he's safely out the door, free to go home and jerk off in peace.

* * *

He almost has himself convinced working with Eddie won't be a big deal by the time he strolls into work three days later. Then he takes one look at the call sheet, sees _Eddie - solo_ next to his name, and locks himself in a dressing room. Of course it's not the first scene he's scheduled to shoot, and he's got some editing to do too, so he's got plenty of time to dwell over what he must have done to deserve this.

He comes to the conclusion that this is divine retribution for the other night. After he'd left the bar, he'd gone straight back to his flat and bent himself over the edge of his mattress. Pants and boxers around his ankles, he'd fingered himself with his laptop open on the bed in front of him, streaming his favourite porn clip. It's just Eddie naked on a cushy sofa, slowly jerking himself off and answering questions posed from off-screen. _Tell us your name. "My name's Eddie."_ It was so early on in his career, he still looks a little nervous, but his dark brown eyes are alight with arousal and excitement. _Have you done this before? Do you like it? Have you ever been fucked on camera? What's your favourite position?_ One question after another, Eddie's voice low and thick, hitching when he twists his wrist around his cock, and Richie ruts against his mattress, fingers twisting inside himself, until he comes into his bedspread just as Eddie's mouth falls open with his own orgasmic groan.

He's noticeably distracted when he's filming Mike and Kay on the living room set. He misses a cue from Bill to move in for a closeup and registers a concerned glance from Mike in response. Richie does his best to shake himself out of it, to focus on the fucking at hand, but his veins are thrumming with low-grade anxiety right up until he arrives on the dorm room set Eddie's shooting in.

Richie has built this up in his head so much he's sure that the real deal can't possibly be as bad as he's expecting. Then he walks on set to find Eddie kneeling on a twin bed wearing nothing but a cherry red jockstrap and experiences the spiritual equivalent of an anime nosebleed. It's not until Stan strolls up and slaps him on the shoulder that he comes to.

"What?" he blurts, though he's not sure Stan actually said anything.

"You good to go? We've got the lighting all set."

Fuck. He'd only glanced at the call sheet long enough to register his own doom. He hadn't even noticed that Stan was lighting this shoot. Now his best friend would be there to witness Richie's horny destruction. Perfect.

"Yeah, I'm good." His voice is surprisingly steady, if not enthusiastic. "Let's get this over with." Stan shoots him a questioning glance, but Richie ignores it and powers ahead to grab his favourite camera from the table just off set.

Bev's directing this one, but directing at Maturin is mostly a formality; they've all worked together long enough that they've found their groove and taking turns at various jobs helps them all instinctively know what each video needs. There's always a director on set, but for the most part the actors just do their thing. Eddie's new, so Bev will be keeping an eye on him, but he's an industry vet at this point. Richie doubts Bev will be doing much more directing than usual. This'll just be Eddie doing whatever gets his rocks off.

That makes this worse, actually.

Richie sighs hard and maneuvers to the edge of the set to start adjusting his camera settings.

He can feel eyes on him, heavy and warm, as he gets set up. He knows it’s Eddie, but forces himself not to look up until he has the barrier of the viewfinder between them.

The barrier doesn't help. Eddie's still kneeling, but sitting back on his haunches. Miles of lightly tanned skin don't lose their appeal through the camera lens. Eddie's dark brown hair looks fluffy and soft, and it's not the first time Richie's itched to twine it around his fingers. He can't see Eddie's ass from here, but he's seen it enough to imagine how delectable it looks framed by the white elastic straps of the jock. He can practically hear the snap of the elastic bouncing off taut skin. In the red pouch of the jockstrap, Eddie's already half hard. Richie's well on his way to joining him.

Desperately thinking of his grandmother nude, Richie gives Bev a quick nod.

"Alright, we're ready to go!" she calls, waving Richie forward onto the set. "Eddie, you know what you're doing?"

"Yeah." Eddie's eyes flicker from Bev back to him as Richie steps into the fake dorm room. He stops a few feet from the bed, allows himself one quick glance up from the camera screen to Eddie himself. Richie had already learned that his eyes are bigger in person, but the effect is magnified when he's basically naked. Wide brown eyes that show every flicker of attraction and gleam of arousal, if you care enough to look. Richie clenches his jaw and refocuses through the camera, then takes a step backward—only to make the downward angle of the shot less dramatic and certainly not for any personal reasons.

Richie hits record. "Rolling," he says quietly.

Eddie glances to his right, at the selection of toys and plugs laid out neatly near the foot of the bed, and smiles a little, his dimple winking near the corner of his mouth. Richie's breath shudders, and he wonders distantly if the microphones will pick that up. Then Eddie looks back toward the camera, into the lens like he can see through the mechanisms to meet Richie's eyes. The apples of his cheeks are flushed and dusted with freckles. He cocks his head, like he had at the bar the other night while he was doing his damndest to ruin Richie’s life. "What should I start with?"

At first, he thinks it's just a bit, like Eddie's talking to the audience. But then Eddie continues to just _look_ at him, and Richie pulls back from the viewfinder far enough to frown at Eddie over the camera. He points to himself questioningly. Eddie nods, and Richie's pants are officially uncomfortably tight.

He wants to clear his throat, but that's a no-no while they’re filming. He swallows instead, and reluctantly looks over the available toy selection. He's seen Eddie use most of these at one point or another, can summon up some very specific instances, even. He's seen Eddie do a lot of things over a lot of videos. He's seen Eddie take a dildo the size of Richie's forearm, for fuck’s sake. But right now all Richie wants to see is _Eddie_.

"Use your fingers," he says. He sounds so low and thick, he almost doesn't recognize his own voice. They'll have to edit him out in post, but he's not mic'd like Eddie. It'll be fine.

He sees Eddie's cock twitch in the red jock pouch, and has exactly enough time to hope the camera caught that before he remembers he's supposed to be making sure it did.

Through the camera, he focuses on the pull of Eddie's lips, the shadow of his dimple, and then the curl of his fingers as he presses them along his throat. Eddie's fingers slide along the expanse of his skin, down over his delicate collarbone to his hair-dusted pecs, where two fingers skirt over his dusky nipple. Richie's tongue darts out to moisten his lips as Eddie's hand continues its journey, smoothing over his delectable belly button and into the trail of thickening hair that leads into the jockstrap.

Richie is so hard he feels lightheaded.

Eddie cups himself through the pouch, fingers squeezing gently. Where the head of his cock is nestled, the bright primary red of the jock is darkening to a damp crimson. He's leaking against the fabric, and Richie can almost taste the rough salt of precome-soaked cotton on his tongue. Eddie's hard too, straining against the pouch enough to give the camera a visible outline of the shaft of his cock. As he rubs himself through the cotton, his free hand moves to his right, feeling for the bottle of lube helpfully nestled in the comforter. The sound of the cap _snick_ ing open makes Richie's dick pulse in his jeans.

He's distantly aware of Don there on the other side of the bed, manning the secondary camera. It's pointed toward Eddie's lower back and ass, careful to keep Richie out of frame. He wonders if Don is as affected by this as he is. If Don's appreciating the view as much as he should be. Probably not. Don doesn't deserve the privilege of Eddie Kaspbrak's ass.

Lucky (or unlucky) for Richie, Eddie seems to agree. He makes heated eye contact with the camera, pours some lube out onto his fingers, and then rolls over onto all fours.

Richie isn't prepared. Imagining it is one thing, but being confronted with the reality of Eddie's taut round ass, framed perfectly by stark white elastic, is another thing entirely. He sinks to his knees, plays it off like it was an artistic choice and not a matter of overwhelming need to lave his tongue up between those cheeks. He exhales hard, but the sound is covered by the breathy sigh that comes from Eddie himself as he reaches back and slides his fingers into the crevice of his ass. The pad of his index finger circles the rim of his hole. Over the mouthwatering curve of his shoulders, the camera catches a dark smudge of hair as Eddie's head falls forward with the sensation.

Eddie's hips roll as he nudges his finger in up to the first knuckle. It's a small gesture, but shockingly obscene in the way the pouch shielding his cock sways with the motion. His hard-on is red-wrapped and obvious hanging between his thighs. Richie's is throbbing in answer, trapped tight behind his zipper. He can't even press his hand against it to take the edge off, because he's got both hands on the camera. It would be too obvious.

Not that it's unheard of for a cameraman to get a boner during a porn shoot. Even for Richie specifically. But there's a world of difference between a perfunctory 'hot people are fucking in front of me' boner and what's happening inside his pants right now.

Eddie doesn't waste a lot of time on just one finger. He works quickly up to two, and Richie can't help but wonder if he'd prepped at all before the shoot. If he fingered himself in his dressing room, or in the shower that morning. Or did he save it all for this? Did he want to save it all for the camera? For the audience?

For Richie?

It's a stupid thought, but it flits through his mind anyway like a moth batting against an exposed lightbulb. The idea that Eddie might be bent over in front of him, carefully scissoring himself open, just for Richie to watch.

A third finger joins the first two, sinking into Eddie's slick pink hole, and for the first time in person, Richie gets to hear the sweet, sweet sound Eddie makes when something feels _really good_. It's low and throaty, and shoots straight down Richie's spine to curl around his cock. Eddie twists his fingers into himself, and he thrusts forward against nothing. Lube-slick black hair sticks to the insides of his cheeks, framing his fingers. If Richie licked in there, chased Eddie's fingers with his tongue, he could slide it in with them. Override the viscous texture of the lube for the warm salt of Eddie's flesh.

He zooms in, swallowing against the watering of his mouth.

He isn't sure how long he fixates on that image, but it's definitely too long for a professional cameraman to linger on any one shot. Then there's a twitch in Eddie's thigh, a shift in his muscle, and he withdraws his fingers, flipping over to resume his original kneel.

The sight of it almost knocks Richie on his ass. The pouch of the jockstrap is far wetter than it was before, a significant dark patch stemming from the head of Eddie's cock and blooming across more than half the fabric. Richie lowers the camera, slotting out the view screen so he can see what the camera sees—Eddie from below, the prominent ridge of his cock behind soaked cotton, his abs shadowed by the set lighting and dusted with coarse, dark hair. It's the view you might have if you were on your knees in front of him. And Richie _is_.

His eyes skate up the length of Eddie's body to meet his arousal-glossy gaze. His pupils are blown wide, almost black, as he reaches to the side to scoop up the first toy he touches. A rippled plug, with a small knob on top that gets thicker as it goes to the bottom. Richie swallows thickly. Eddie brings the toy out in front of him, slathers it in lube, and then reaches behind himself. Richie knows Don's zooming in on this, can imagine the first knob of the plug nudging between Eddie's cheeks, but he can't bring himself to be jealous when Eddie's other hand is shoving the jockstrap down.

Shakily, Richie climbs to his feet and takes a step backward, camera low enough to catch all of Eddie's body while still capturing the space between his spread thighs, where the end of the plug is bracing against his palm and the mattress as he sinks back onto it. Richie's next exhale is as shuddery as Eddie's. He clasps one slippery hand around the considerable length of his cock as soon as it's free, and on the upstroke, he pushes fully back onto the plug. His head falls back with the sensation, the long line of his throat bared and ready to be bitten, marked up, scraped raw.

After taking a moment to get his bearings, Eddie starts to move. He raises up off the plug and strokes his fist down his shaft in tandem. The stage lights make the precome pearling at the tip of his cock glint tantalizingly, like a melted drop of ice cream on the edge of a cone. Richie's palms are sweating against the camera, and it's probably bad for the mechanisms or something. He pulls one hand away from the camera, careful not to jostle the screen, and rubs his palm against his thigh.

A ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of Eddie's mouth, and Richie's face burns with some untenable combination of embarrassment and debilitating arousal. Richie's losing it and Eddie _knows_.

Eddie's jaw is open and slack, like it would take too much brain power to close it. Richie aches to slide something in there, his tongue, his fingers, his cock, _whatever_ , he just needs to feel that damp heat. Eddie bounces, mouth open, arm working, on the plug, and he's doing it on camera, but he's looking _at_ Richie. Richie feels feral under the heat of Eddie's stare and all he can do is clutch the camera like a lifeline and try not to pant too loud.

The head of Eddie's cock is flushed dark red, peeking out through the tight grip of his fist as he pumps. Richie's staring unabashedly, barely paying attention to the camera angle, when Eddie finally pulls the plug out from between his legs and underhands it to the side of the bed with the other toys. A heavy exhale falls from his mouth, and his hand hovers over the other toys, but his eyes never leave Richie's. Then, shredded with need, he says, "Richie."

Richie tosses the camera to the bed like it's a beat-up wallet and not a $3000 piece of video equipment. That's all he can manage before his hands are on Eddie, one delving back into thick, sweaty hair and the other cupping the loose hinge of Eddie's jaw, tilting his head back so Richie can finally get his mouth on him. He hears something that sounds like _what the fuck?_ off to his right, but barely processes it. His senses are too overwhelmed by the tight blaze of heat that's Eddie's body, the taste of his mouth, the warm, spicy scent of him. Eddie's already too fucked out to kiss him properly, his mouth lax but enthusiastic as Richie licks along the roof of his mouth. Eddie groans into him and Richie throbs in his pants.

He breaks the kiss with a trail of his lips to Eddie's ear, where he murmurs, "Tell me this is okay," even as his hand slides down the length of Eddie's spine to cup his ass.

"I want it," Eddie says, clutching at his shoulders, "I want you. Don't stop."

"Fuck," he replies. "Never." He's not sure he could even if he tried.

He pulls back just far enough to look Eddie in the eye, his thumb coming up to brush along his kiss-swollen lower lip. This close, Richie can see the freckles that dapple his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and he aches to kiss each and every one. He's not sure what's happening, exactly, but fuck if he's going to question it. He's got a gorgeous porn star in his arms. Gift horse, mouth, et cetera.

Eddie sucks his thumb into his mouth, and Richie curses softly. Then in one movement, he hooks his hands around the backs of Eddie's thighs, lifts, and jerks forward, sending Eddie sprawling onto his back with a shout of surprise. He slots one knee between Eddie's legs and ducks down to press his open mouth to a pec. He laves along it with his tongue, then scratches his teeth along the skin near Eddie's nipple. Eddie arches up off the bed and into his mouth, Richie's hand skimming down along the side of him to feel every shift and ripple of muscle and skin.

He kisses his way down to Eddie's belly button, delves his tongue inside, and smiles into it when he feels Eddie laugh. Eddie's fingers tunnel into Richie's hair, tugging gently, and Richie shivers, a hot breath hitting Eddie's happy trail. It's the only trail Richie's ever been so happy to follow.

He peels the jockstrap off with one hand, contorting a bit so he can manage without taking his mouth off the man under him. He tosses it away somewhere, and then uses his freed hand to finally take hold of Eddie's cock, slick with precome. Eddie shifts above him, propping up on his elbow so he can get a good view. When Richie looks up, there's a camera lens hovering over Eddie's shoulder, peering down at him.

For a split second, he freezes. It had been so easy to forget where they were and why they were there. But there's a reason he's never been on camera, never wanted to be. He's not cut out for this, nobody wants to see him naked, see him fuck a gorgeous guy like—

Eddie ducks down and kisses him, hard and needy, hand fisted in the curls at the nape of his neck. Then he says into Richie's mouth, "Just fuck me. I'm ready."

Somehow, Richie is able to extricate himself from Eddie's grip and slide back down his body to where he's slowly stroking him off. "And miss the chance to get my mouth on you?" He presses one last damp kiss to Eddie's abdomen, just above the line of his carefully trimmed public hair. "No fucking way."

He delves in, shifting his hand to the base of Eddie's cock so that he can get the rest of it into his mouth. His skin is hot, salty and a little bitter with the taste of precome, and Richie can't get enough of it. He moans around the feel of Eddie's vein throbbing against his tongue. It's been a hot minute since Richie's sucked anyone off, but he's determined to shake the rust off quickly. If anyone deserves Richie Tozier's best blowjob, it's Eddie Keller.

No. _Kaspbrak_.

He's trying to take his time, to make it good. Eddie's hand seems to magnetically find its way back into Richie's hair, but he doesn't push or try to direct him, just gathers curls into his fingers and holds on. Arousal and the bright stage lights have Richie sweating under his tee, but he ignores it and focuses on the dick at hand. He refuses to close his eyes longer than it takes to blink, won't let one second of up-close Eddie go to waste. He ducks down, takes most of Eddie's cock in his mouth, and sucks eagerly, free hand gripping tight to Eddie's hip. Only when Eddie starts trying to fuck up into his mouth does he let go and slide that hand between Eddie's thighs instead.

He's done a superb job fucking himself open with his fingers, and then with the plug, and Richie loses it a little when he touches Eddie's wet, clenching rim. When he slides three fingers inside, Richie has to pull off Eddie's dick just so he can curse properly. Eddie writhes, and his dick pulses another gush of precome. "You always get so wet in your videos," he says. It sounds like _he's_ the one fucked out now, he sounds wrecked, he's a disaster. "I wondered if it was real, or if it was—"

"It's real," Eddie groans, though the state of his cock has made this pretty self-evident.

"I've never seen you get _this_ wet, though." Belatedly, he thinks he should have kept that observation to himself, but Eddie's nodding agreeably above him, hips rolling with the movements of Richie's fingers. He curls up to brush at Eddie's prostate and a punched-out sound is his reward, coming in time with a sharp jerk on his hair. He hisses, feels his cock jerk against the confines of denim. "Fuck, Eds."

"Fuck me, Richie, god _damnit._ "

"Okay. Shit. Okay."

He pulls his fingers out from between Eddie's legs so he can reach back and pull his shirt off. He tosses it vaguely in the direction he'd thrown his camera, only to frown when he notices the camera is gone. It's not enough to distract him, though, especially when Eddie bolts upright and smooths his hands across Richie's chest and over his shoulders.

Eddie's mouth comes down on his jugular, biting in hard, and he scrabbles to get his hands back on Eddie's body. "I haven't stopped thinking about your fucking shoulders since I met you."

He shudders; just the goddamn _notion_ that Eddie had a fleeting thought about him feels like a sledgehammer to his sternum. "What the fuck, you're perfect. I'm obsessed with you."

"Prove it," Eddie dares, and jerks open the fly of Richie's jeans.

Richie manhandles Eddie farther up the bed so that he can kneel on the edge of the mattress between Eddie’s knees. He ducks to the side to grab the abandoned bottle of lube while Eddie shoves at his jeans and boxers until they're down over his hips and his dick is free. Eddie freezes, so Richie does too, ready to drop the lube and back off at the slightest hint that Eddie's changed his mind. But when he looks to see what the problem is, he just finds Eddie staring wide-eyed at his cock, mouth open and wet, tongue skirting the edges of his lips like he's just sat down for Thanksgiving dinner.

”You weren’t kidding,” Eddie pants.

Bev's voice from off set: "For fuck's sake!"

Richie exhales in relief, rolling his eyes a little, and yanks on Eddie's knees to get him flat on his back again. He goes without a fight, apparently mollified by the sight of Richie's cock. It's gratifying, but still, Richie doesn't want to dillydally when he's kneeling between a sexy porn star's splayed thighs.

"Hurry up," Eddie says, as though Richie is deliberately making him wait for it. As if Richie is capable of that sort of self-control when Eddie is looking at him like _that_.

He slicks his cock with more lube than is probably necessary, wipes his hand off on the comforter, and nudges his tip between Eddie's ass cheeks. "You ready?"

"I've fucking _been_ ready, asshole!" is Eddie's indignant reply, and Richie huffs a laugh as he presses forward into the tight clutch of Eddie's ass. He holds Eddie's knee for stability as he sinks in, but as soon as he bottoms out, he falls forward to catch Eddie's mouth with his own. It's a terrible angle for porn, doesn't give the cameras any access to the good stuff, but he couldn't care less. All Richie cares about now is Eddie; the soft whine he lets out into Richie's mouth, the sweat-sticky press of his body underneath him, the searing heat of his ass. He thinks it might be all he'll care about for the rest of his life.

He kisses Eddie long and deep, savouring the feel of being as far inside him as he can get, until Eddie starts squirming under him, tugging on his hair and pushing at his shoulder. "Come _on,_ " he begs.

Blunt nails scrape down the curve of his shoulder and upper arm, and Richie responds by gently rocking his hips forward, grinding into Eddie instead of pulling out. Eddie arches up, his neck curving perfectly. It would be bad manners to leave a hickey on a throat that's on camera for a living, but the urge is almost overwhelming. He opts to channel his frustration into fucking Eddie the way he deserves.

He pulls back up onto his knees and hooks one arm under Eddie's leg to hold it up. Then he settles into a rhythm, quick and purposeful, and takes Eddie's cock back into his hand. He shakes his head, hoping to clear out some of the sex-haze. It doesn't work. "Jesus, Eds, I'm not gonna be able to keep this up for long." He’s splayed out and wanton, hands fisting into the comforter to keep him in place while Richie fucks into him, mouth still open. It’s obscene. "Look at you, fuck."

"Me either." Eddie shakes his head, his chest heaving with exertion. One of his hands releases the bedspread to shove back through his own hair, like he might be losing his mind. "I'm so close, Richie."

You have to have a certain amount of stamina to be a porn star. A lot of the work is done by combining various takes with editing to make it look like one longer shoot, but the longer you can go without coming, the better. He knows Eddie can keep it together most of the time, has seen videos of him getting edged, or fucking oversensitive twinks until they cry, but he's barely been inside Eddie for three minutes and he's ready to blow. It's so much, too much for Richie to handle. His hips stutter, thrusts ramping up in force, and he jacks Eddie off with blind fervour.

"Fuck, Rich, Richie, _fuck_." Eddie's voice is high and whiny, and then he clenches hard around Richie's cock, come spurting out over Richie's fingers to splatter onto Eddie's chest, pink from exertion. Richie keeps fucking him, barely reacts except to release Eddie's spent cock.

"Where do you want it?" he asks. In most of Eddie's videos, he takes it on his body or face. It's standard in porn as a whole, really, since the comeshot is one of the most revered parts of any shoot. Plus, it's marginally safer, though recent test results for both of them are sitting in Bev's office, but Eddie would probably prefer if he didn't—

"Come inside me."

Richie had thought Eddie sounded fucked-out before, but the sound of his voice spilling _those words_ is almost enough to set him off on its own. He groans, grabs Eddie's hips with both hands and holds his ass up off the bed so he can finish as deep as possible. He manages three more rough, staccato thrusts before he spills into Eddie.

He's not sure how long he stays there, buried to the hilt in Eddie's ass as his cock softens, but it's long enough that he feels his heart rate return to normal. Eddie's quiet, not moving, just looking up at him with huge, sated eyes. Normally, this is where the director would call cut, but Bev's not saying anything. In his peripheral, Richie can see Don with one camera, and Stan on his other side, holding the camera that had been his.

"Jesus," Eddie says finally, and Richie gives a soft, "Yeah," in response and pulls out. Then he rolls Eddie over onto his stomach and slides to his knees again on the floor next to the bed.

He hooks his hands under Eddie's thighs and yanks him toward the edge of the mattress. He barely gives Eddie time to figure out what he's doing before he spreads Eddie's ass cheeks with his hands and licks up the line of come that's oozed out of him. He hears a muffled gasp just before his tongue finds the fuck-loose rim of Eddie's hole. It slides in easy, picking up the taste of lube and come and skin.

" _Fuuuuck,_ " Eddie moans, hips pushing back onto Richie's face. "Fuck, that's good, Rich."

"Yeah?" He doesn't pull back far to answer, talks mostly into Eddie's ass. "You like it, baby?"

"I _love_ it." Richie murmurs an appreciative reply and brushes the pad of his thumb down Eddie's perineum until he finds his balls. He fucks his tongue in as far as he can get, stretching his mouth open wide. He nudges gently against Eddie's balls and Eddie rocks into the mattress in answer. "Shit, I _can't_. I can't come again."

Richie pulls back far enough to smile darkly. "Yeah, you can, baby. I've seen you do it. You can come just from my tongue in your ass, can't you?"

Eddie's response is just a long, low groan punctuated by insistent rutting against the bed. Richie dives eagerly back in, lapping along the outside of Eddie's rim and then twirling into it to lick along the inside edge. His own come coats his tongue, odd but not unpleasant. It's sort of hot, enough that his dick gives a twitch of interest. Under his hands, Eddie's thighs start to tense, and Richie takes that as his cue to slide a finger in alongside his tongue. He massages gently, urging his tongue in so far it hurts the muscles in his mouth, but he can't get enough of the sounds Eddie's making, would give anything to keep him going. He sounds incredible, a wet dream waiting to happen, and Richie knows that he could live a thousand years and never experience anything that would rock his world quite this much. This is it for him. He's peaked.

When Eddie comes again, it's not nearly as loud as the first time. It's low and sweet, exhaustion making his body lax on the bed, and the only indication that he's actually gone again is that his rhythmic thrusting against the mattress slows to a halt. Richie gives one last, soothing lick, and then drapes over Eddie's back, pressing a wet kiss to one temptingly freckled shoulder blade. Eddie's breath is shuddery and tired, and when Eddie rolls over under him, his face is damp with tear tracks.

Richie's heart squeezes in his chest as he reaches up to push a fluff of hair off Eddie's forehead. "You okay?" he asks quietly, hopefully too quiet for the mics to hear. Eddie nods blearily and pulls him down for a kiss. Richie can't help but sink into it a little too much. He could probably have fallen asleep there in Eddie's arms, if Bev hadn't chosen that moment to call, "Cut!"

It’s not like he’d forgotten where they were, but the direction hits him like a bucket of ice water to the face. He can’t believe himself. He completely lost the plot, and with it, probably his job. What kind of cameraman fucks the talent? He’s such a fucking moron.

Richie uses his last bit of strength to roll off of Eddie and belatedly pull his pants back up; he'd been so wrapped up in Eddie's ass, he hadn't dealt with them just hanging around his thighs for the last however long. He carefully tucks himself back inside and zips up, and when he pushes into a sitting position, a PA is there with a robe in hand. He takes it as another is offered to Eddie, and pulls it on as he tries to find his missing shirt.

Eddie stands and ties the robe around himself, looking every inch the well-fucked rent boy in dark red terry cloth. He catches Richie looking, a crooked half-smile crossing his face, and Richie grins, opens his mouth to make a stupid joke, only for Bev to appear in front of him and narrow her eyes. His jaw snaps shut.

"Rich. My office, now."

He flinches and scrambles after her as she stalks away, avoiding Eddie's eyes as he leaves.

He can feel eyes on him from everywhere as he makes his way to Bev's office, and tries to smooth down his sex-rumpled hair with fingers shaking from adrenaline crash. He tries to keep his head empty, to force down the anxiety mounting in his gut, but he already feels a little nauseous. He shoves his hands into the pockets of the robe and wishes viciously he'd had a chance to find his shirt, maybe shower, or at least wait for his knees to lose the post-orgasm jelly feeling, before he gets fired.

Bev moves into her office first, then holds the door as Richie steps in after her. She wordlessly points at a chair, which Richie sinks into as she shuts the door behind him. He's mentally thrown back to third grade, swinging his legs across the desk from his school principal as he was chided for bringing his dad's nudie pack of playing cards to school. He grimaces as Bev sits down across from him in her rolling chair. For a long, pregnant moment, they're both silent. Then she says: "What the fuck, Richard?"

"Look, Bev, I'm really sorry," he says in a rush.

"I just want to know..." She speaks slowly, looking down at her hands, folded daintily on her desk. "... why you thought it would be okay—" He starts to interrupt, but she holds up a hand sharply to shush him, and Richie shrinks in on himself. "—to tell me you didn't want to be on camera when you have a dick that big."

"I'm so fucking sorry, Bev, I — wait, what?"

His blood rushes in his ears from the anxiety swooping through him, but as it starts to recede he takes a closer look at her and realizes that it's not disappointment or ire shining in her eyes. It's delight.

"Okay, sure," she continues with a hand wave, "it's not outrageous in porn terms, but it is a _very_ respectable size, Rich, and you clearly know how to use it or I wouldn't have seen Stan adjusting his boner when he was filming for you."

He's not 100% sure he knows what flabbergasted means, but that's what he is. Richie is flabbergasted. "Stan was— Stan was _hard?_ Stan _Uris?_ "

"Everybody was hard, Richie, _focus_." She's rifling through her desk drawer now, papers rustling, until she yanks out a file with his name on it. "I'll have to reread your contract, but I don't remember putting in any clauses about you never working on camera. That was just an unspoken thing, right? And you're tested at the same rate everybody else is, so we don't have anything to worry about there. Are you good if we start adding you to the rotation?"

"What rotation?" He's definitely missed something, and it's making his head spin. He's not sure why he hasn't been fired yet.

"The performer rotation." She's still not looking at him; her red head is ducked over what looks like a schedule, and she's twirling a pen that she produced from nowhere between her fingers. "We can put you in with Bill next week, maybe. I assume you only want to work with guys?"

"Wait, Bev. What?" All at once he leans forward in his chair, elbows coming down onto his knees and robe falling open in the front like he's some kind of coquettish vixen bent on seducing her boss for a raise. "No. Bev, I don't want to be on camera, what are you _talking_ about?"

She finally looks up from the papers to cock her head at him, confusion writ all over her face. "Are you serious? Richie, you're a natural! And it's not like anybody _made_ you whip your dick out today and go to town on Eddie Keller."

"That was different, it— I didn't mean to, okay? It was an accident, it doesn't mean I want to be on camera."

"Are you telling me I can't use the footage we shot today?" Her tone is edging toward dangerous in the way it gets when someone tries to tell her how to run her business. He cringes, falling back in his chair once again.

"No, of course not. I knew what I was doing. Kind of." He blows out an exhale, shoving one hand back through his hair. "I just don't want to do it _again_."

Bev sighs, and he can see her working to rein in her enthusiasm, to stem the tide of go-go-go caused by his inability to keep himself from fucking Eddie. "Okay," she says. "Why don't you take a week to think about it? Consider your options, chat to the others about it if you want their opinions, and then let me know. If you really don't want to move to on-camera work, nobody's going to make you. But you'd get a raise. You'd be helping the company. And..." She hesitates, glancing slyly at him through her fine ginger lashes. "... you'd get to work with Eddie."

He glares at her as he stands. "You're a bad person, Beverly Marsh."

She makes her patented _who, me?_ face, and then shoos him out of her office with a wave.

"Are you fired?" Eddie leaps up from his position slumped against the wall next to Bev's office door, scaring Richie enough that he jumps back with an incredibly unmanly yelp.

"Jesus, what are you, a gremlin?" Eddie ignores him, falling into step beside Richie as he walks, and arches a pointed brow at him. "No," he sighs. "I'm not fired."

Eddie considers this for half a beat. Then: "Am _I_ fired?"

"Not as far as I know." Richie has no idea what’s happening here. This isn’t exactly smalltalk, but it’s more talk than he would have expected. Eddie should already be cleaned up by now and congratulating himself on a job well done. Not hanging around to see if Richie’s fucked his way out of a job.

Eddie's also still in his robe; he looks far better in it than Richie does in his. The post-sex flush has faded from his cheeks, but his hair is still mussed, and there's a red mark that Richie doesn't remember making just below the hollow if his collarbones. He's also wearing flip flops, which Richie supposes makes sense given that he had been fully naked in the shoot, but still makes him look like a gigolo on a spa day. It's ridiculous. Why does Richie find it sexy?

"I'm headed to the showers," he says when Eddie fails to give him anything else to work with. He needs to wash up; his hands still smell like lube.

Eddie nods. "Me too."

"Right." Of course Eddie's also going to the showers. He's covered in lube and come and Richie's gross cameraman sweat. Of course he'd want to wash that off.

"We could... together?" Eddie says. The words individually all make sense, but they don't really form a sentence, and Richie can feel his brain wrinkling as he tries to parse it out. They were literally already walking to the showers together. Why would Eddie ask if they could? But before he can figure out how to ask for clarification, Eddie gives an agitated huff. "Shower together, I mean."

Richie feels like he's been kicked in the chest by a horse. That’s the last thing he expected Eddie to say, but he forces what he hopes is a charming smile. "You need help with the hard-to-reach places?"

Eddie's mouth twitches like he's trying not to smile. "You seem to have found them pretty well already."

Richie manfully does _not_ punch the air like John Bender at the end of _Breakfast Club._

Eddie continues, the picture of feigned nonchalance, "Then later, maybe tonight, we could get dinner?"

"Tonight?" he repeats dumbly. He’s familiar enough with the concept of courtship rituals to recognize a date invitation, but he’s having trouble connecting it to himself, when offered by _Eddie_. Maybe his dick was magical? Regardless, he’d have to be braindead to turn down Eddie Kaspbrak.

He might be a _little_ braindead, though, because when he opens his mouth, what comes out is: "I dunno, I just had a pretty big meal."

Eddie's face scrunches up into the most adorable frown, and he shoves Richie hard in the shoulder, sending him flying into the wall as Richie cackles.

"Do you fucking want seconds, or not? Jackass."

As he straightens up, shoulders pressed back against the wall of the hallway, Richie finds he can't shake the stupid grin off his face. Eddie's stopped in front of him, arms folded huffily across his chest, and he's glaring in the sort of way that's trying to hide amusement. Richie's seen the face that he makes when he comes, and this is still the most beautiful expression he's ever seen on Eddie's face.

This is so much. More than he’d expected of a Tuesday. He _hates_ Tuesdays. "Oh, I want seconds," he assures, and then hesitates before reaching his arms out for Eddie to step into. It’s presumptuous, but Eddie takes the opening, and Richie’s whole body unclenches with the wave of relief. He presses his thumbs through the terrycloth into Eddie's hip bones, drawing him close. "And thirds, and fourths..."

Eddie pulls him down into a kiss, slow and sweet. When it breaks, he says, "Ambitious," and moves his lips down to the pulse point in Richie's throat. Maybe Tuesdays aren’t so bad.

"I've been told I'm a go-getter," Richie quips. It comes out a bit more strangled than he'd intended.

"Have you been told your dick is worth getting fired over?"

Richie blinks. "Uh. No."

"And you never will," Eddie nods. "Because I didn't get fired. Now come shower with me." He steps out of Richie's arms to clasp one of his hands instead.

Richie salutes him. "Yes, sir, Spaghetti, sir." As Eddie turns away to resume their walk down the hall to the showers, Richie slaps his ass. Eddie glares over his shoulder. "Lead the way."

**Author's Note:**

> [Pancakke shirt](https://twitter.com/omniocularz/status/1248009957078740994?s=20)
> 
> Title from "I Turn My Camera On" by Spoon.
> 
> Shoutout to [Alec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queermccoy/pseuds/queermccoy) and the Slutty Richie Rights chat for putting up with my relentless whining while I wrote this, to [Chrissy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsettodrop/pseuds/falsettodrop) and [Katie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestbreak/pseuds/tempestbreak) for the betas, and to the It Thots for being generally wonderful.
> 
> If you want to scream about Reddie, you can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/omniocularz) or [Tumblr](https://icanseeyourtoner.tumblr.com/).


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